They say a sonnet takes its cues from love:
the rhythmic beat of hearts that pound in time,
the lilting language lends an image of
two perfect souls in raptured form of rhyme.

They also say this poet’s form is dead
a limp and limping verse for ages past
but for Spenser, Shakespeare, all is lead
replacing gold as alchemist’s repast.

Nostalgia is the need to nurture need;
and inspiration finds its muses fresh
in state, a poison apple still can feed
a hollow chest, and words can minds enmesh.

Though fantasies and faerie stories thrill
A sonnet’s ancient form enthralls the will